
Class TS 3513 . 

Book, 4 34 13 7 
OiO 

Copyright^ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



THE DREAM-ROAD 

AND OTHER VERSES 



BY 

WILLIAM D. GOOLD 




BOSTON 
SHERMAN, FRENCH &f COMPANY 

1910 



Copyright, 1910 
Sherman, French & Company 



0^ 






CI. A 2736 90 









TO 

MY WIFE 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

THE DREAM-ROAD 1 

THE OPENING DOOR 3 

SO GROWS MY LOVE 4 

THE LAMBS AND THE SHEPHERD . 5 

A TRAGEDY 6 

THE ECHO 7 

MARTIUS MENSIS 8 

IN LIFE'S FOREST 9 

MY ACTINIDIA 10 

CRUCIFIED 12 

HE IS RISEN 14 

A FLOWER OF NEW ENGLAND ... 16 

THE SACRED HILLS IT 

A DAY OF THE LONG AGO .... 18 

THE MARCH OF THE MEN IN BLUE . . 20 

O NIGHT THE DARKEST EARTH HAS SEEN 22 

A TRIBUTE 24 

RECOMPENSE 26 

THE WEARY TEACHER 27 

THE FLOWER TRANSPLANTED ... 28 

WHY THE BIRDS SING 29 

THE CALLING WATER 30 

ABSENCE 32 

MOTHER'S BAKING DAY 34 

A SUMMER NOON 38 

THE WOOD ROAD 40 

THERE IS MY HOME 42 

BURIED TREASURE 43 

FATHER'S HOLIDAY 44 



PAGE 

THE VISION . 46 

THE ORGAN MASTER 48 

WORK ON 50 

THE WIFE 51 

HER EYES ARE WINDOWS .... 52 

MEMORY 53 

TWO DAYS 54 

THE OLD YELLOW HIGH CHAIR ... 55 

A DAY AT SEA 61 

AFTER SIXTY YEARS 62 

A PICTURE 63 

THE PRODIGAL SON'S AWAKENING . . 64 

THE AUGUST CROAKER 65 

SUMMER PASSES 66 

THROUGH THE VALLEY 67 

MY SHINGLE ROOF 68 

THE VANISHED SPIRIT 70 

BUILD NOT THINE EARTHLY HOME SO 

FAIR ........ 71 

NIGHTFALL ON THE LAKE .... 72 

THE LIVING FLAG 74 

THE ROOM BEYOND 76 

THE WINDING OF THE CLOCKS ... 77 

THE CHILDLESS WOMAN'S CRY ... 81 

AT THE YEAR'S END 82 

THE LIVING LINCOLN 84 

IF ONLY — ! 86 

DISCONTENT 87 

THE NEW BOOK 88 

O SWEET MY VALENTINE! .... 89 
LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF 

ST. PIERRE 90 



PAGE 

IT IS THE SAME 91 

JESUS GARCIA'S RIDE 92 

TO MY OLD ARMCHAIR .... 94 

THE ENGINEER 95 

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP .... 97 

GROWING OLD 98 

THE OLD BRICK HOUSE ACROSS THE WAY 99 

THE TREE OF THE CROSS .... 103 

NOTES 109 



THE DREAM-ROAD 

There's a broad highway that windeth down 
And out, and up, and far away; 
From the closing gates of Slumber Town 
To the opening portals of Peep O' Day. 

The road lies dim in the crawling mist 
And the drowsy night winds wander there, 
And touch, with the wand of an alchemist, 
The shapes that along that highway fare. 

wonder of wonders, that open eyes 

Gain never a glimpse of that well worn way; 
That none of the Dream-Road's mysteries 
Are known to the children of Peep O' Day! 

For only the fast-closed eyes can see 

The shapes that are crowding that stretch of 

mist; 
The lift of an eyelid turns the key, 
And locks the door which the sun had kissed. 

1 have seen — and you — at dead of night, 
A motley throng go trooping by ; 
Spirits of darkness, angels of light, 

All shifting, changing, constantly. 



[i] 



For the poppied breath of the night wind seems, 
At a touch, to melt some shapes, and some 
Take on new forms, for the children of dreams 
Forever change as they go and come. 

Often we see our loved ones there, — 
Those who have long since gone before, — 
For a moment brief, then the vision fair 
Dies, as a wave on the ocean shore. 

Thank God for the Dream-Road winding 

down, 
And out, and up, and far away ; 
From the closing gates of Slumber Town 
To the opening portals of Peep O' Day! 



[2] 



THE OPENING DOOR 

The door that shuts the winter from the spring, 
Swings slowly open, and with eager eyes, 
We look abroad and search the earth and skies 
For friends to gladden with our welcoming. 

Some blades of green beside a sunny wall — 

The pussy-willow yonder in the field — 

The tiny stream that wanders through the 

weald — 
The scudding cloud that shadow-tints them 

all,— 

How glad we are to see them back again! 
How we have missed them through the months 

of cold, 
These friends, forever new, forever old, — 
Truer, more steadfast than the sons of men ! 

To-day, a crow, bound North on pinion strong, 
Flung down his welcome as he went his way ; 
I heard a robin singing yesterday, — 
The Bethlehem shepherds heard no sweeter 
song! 

The door that shuts the winter from the spring 
Ere long shall stand wide open, and a host 
Of those old friends that glad our hearts the 

most 
Will seek and find an old-time welcoming. 

[3] 



SO GROWS MY LOVE 

As matin songs succeed the midnight hushes, 
As night's soft breath distils in drops of dew ; 
As daylight grows from dawn's first timorous 

blushes, 
So in my heart there grows my love for you. 

As some far spring steals from the rock's cool 

shadow, 
And leaps in gladness down the mountain side, 
Then glides 'twixt widening banks across the 

meadow, 
So love for you grows ever deep and wide. 

Through April's smiles and tears the buds are 

swelling, 
And burst in blossom just to welcome May; 
So love for you — but, ah ! 'tis past the telling, 
So great, sweetheart, has grown my love to-day ! 



[4] 



THE LAMBS AND THE SHEPHERD 

A pleasant meadow and a Shepherd's call 
Beyond the confines of a crumbling wall. 
I and a flock of lambs together stay 
Upon this side and wait the coming day ; 
And when that kindly Voice is heard afar 
The lambs in gladness leap the wall's slight bar 
And run to meet the Shepherd. I am old 
And without help I cannot reach the fold, 
But lo ! He comes to where I, trembling, stand 
And reaching o'er the wall He takes my hand, 
And now, within the meadow, He and I 
Watch for the brightening of the eastern sky. 



[5] 



A TRAGEDY 

A silent figure standing by the door, 
Watching the postman as he comes across the 

way; 
Then quivering lips, repeating o'er and o'er 
The man's brief message, "None for you to- 
day!" 



[6] 



THE ECHO 

In the brick-walled gullies which men call 

streets, 
Our hurrying footsteps fall, 
While tortured Echo madly beats 
In vain from wall to wall. 

In the wide green places which God has made 

Eternal Stillness keeps 

Her faithful watch while, unafraid, 

The wearied Echo sleeps. 



[7 



MARTIUS MENSIS 

Herald of April! Thou art boisterous, rough; 

A queen's forerunner should of gentler stuff 

Be made! 

The jade! 

Methinks, perchance, she sends thee on ahead, 

While she a little longer lies abed 

And takes her beauty sleep. 'Tis like the minx ! 

Nor is it past all reason that she thinks 

Our love for her may all the greater be 

Because of what we find to hate in thee. 

And there is over-much. We scan in vain 

Thy rough, rude ways 

For aught to praise; 

We count the days remaining of thy reign 

As doth the prisoner, doomed for some brief 

while 
To dungeon deep, look forward to the smile 
Of liberty. O March! Who are thy friends? 
Not the old tree on yonder hill, that bends 
His head when thou dost speak. Nor yet the 

birds 
Which shiver when thou passest by ; nor herds 
Which at thy rough approach show thee their 

backs, 
And seek the shelter of the friendly stacks. 
Thou hast no friends ! Go bid thy lagging queen 
Make haste, and when her smiling face is seen, 
She shall have welcome; Thou, O Martius 

Mensis 
Begone! Thy blustering presence an offense is. 
[8] 



IN LIFE'S FOREST 

The years are as a forest wherein days 

Are trees, 'mongst which the countless winding 

ways 
Of life are found. Upon these paths men go 
And come. They meet, and pass, and it is so 
Sometimes, that there is chance for but one cry 
Of greeting; just one glance from eye to eye, 
Then they are gone, perhaps to meet no more 
Till they have passed beyond the Eternal Shore. 

If it were given me to live again 
The life which I have lived on earth with men, — 
To pass once more along the way from birth 
To that last day when endeth life's to-morrow, — 
I'd try and live so that each hour some sorrow 
Might holpen be or some pain eased away; 
Would try and leave some mark upon each day 
As I passed on my journey. So, to those 
Who followed after, as the guide post shows 
The hidden road, my marks along life's way 
Should be so plain that men would note and say 
" He hath been here but yesterday ! " 



[9] 



MY ACTINIDIA 

Outside my landing window my Actinidia 

climbs — 
(O shades of Shakespeare! tell me what with 

Actinidia rhymes?) 
And I love my Actinida for his coat of glossy 

green, 
Which he wears from earliest springtime till the 

first snowflake is seen. 

With his long, far-reaching fingers he lays hold 
of slat or blind, 

And if he search in vain and can no friendly ob- 
ject find, 

He ne'er gives up, but reaches out and clutches 
at the wind. 

Across my landing window he hath woven lattice 

green, 
Where the birds of early morning meet to carol 

and to preen, 
And through the leaves the level rays of the 

setting sun are seen. 



[10] 



Each morning I have greeting from this sturdy 

friend who keeps 
His faithful watch while all the weary household 

safely sleeps; 
And his the face I look on last when all good 

nights are said, 
And I have passed the window on my way up 

stairs to bed. 

All through the long, cold winter months the 

window, closed and fast, 
Shut him without to face alone the snow and 

sleet and blast, 
And there he clung and waited with a patience 

unsurpassed. 

You should have seen his greeting when I flung 

the window wide 
And he saw me on the landing of the stairway 

just inside! 
Shame filled my heart and I must own the truth 

— I almost cried ! 

So I love my Actinidia with his coat of bright- 
est green, 

For he giveth good for evil as no other friend 
I've seen, 

Which were a God-like thing and one most dif- 
ficult, I ween. 

[ii] 



CRUCIFIED 

They wait in far Capernaum, 

On Galilee's blest shore; 

They wait and hope, and long to feel 

His healing touch once more. 

How oft He trod their busy streets, 
And healed each one that came; 
The deaf, the dumb, the sick, the blind, 
The palsied and the lame. 

With eager eyes they scan each sail 
Which may the Master bear; 
They search the mountain and the vale, 
The Healer is not there! 

The women of Samaria 
To Jacob's well repair, 
Hoping to hear again that voice, 
But Jesus rests not there! 

Within the home in Bethany 
To which the Master's feet 
Turned at the close of weary day, 
And found a refuge sweet, 

The sisters sit and wait in vain ; 
The sunset tints the West 
Ere dies the lingering hope that He 
May be, to-night, their guest. 

[12] 



O weep, ye sick by Galilee, 
Ye blind and deaf and dumb; 
Ye lame and halt who sit and wait, 
Still hoping He may come! 

Weep ye who heard that gracious voice, 
Beside the deep, cool well, 
And ye who watched until the shade 
Of Olive's Mountain fell! 

For, Him ye wait for, Him ye love, 
Hangs yonder on a tree; 
They crucified the Son of God 
To-day, on Calvary! 



[13] 



HE IS RISEN 

Doubt sits enthroned among the gloomy hours, 
Night's wide dominion knows no gladdening 

ray; 
Grief holdeth fast Hope's swiftly fading 

flowers, 
Joy died long since, and this is that third Day ! 

But look! What light, down-dropping, cleaves 

the sky, 
Like meteor swift that shames the brightest 

star; 
And hark! On listening ears earth's tremblings 

die, 
Then live again in footsteps felt afar. 

'Tis Heaven's host come down to wake their 

Lord 
From self-imposed sleep within the tomb; 
And, breathless, Heaven waits to hear that word 
Which lifts a world from its abyssmal gloom. 

Back from the rocky vault an angel band 
In silence rolls the great stone seal away; 
Then forth, with blessings in His outstretched 

hand, 
Comes He whom death had sought in vain to 

stay. 



[14] 



" The Lord is risen ! " Shout, ye Heavenly 

throng ! 
" The Lord is risen ! " Earth take up the cry ! 

And unborn ages shall the song prolong — 
" He lives again who died on Calvary ! " 



[15] 



A FLOWER OF NEW ENGLAND 

There is a flower whose name I need not call, 
Which shyly hides beside the crumbling wall, 
Or lifts, through drifts of leaves, her modest 

head 
And looks about, and asks, "Is winter dead?" 

venturous flower! Scarce waiting for the 

spring 
Ere thou dost come again with blossoming, 
But, through belated snows, 
Thy hardy petal shows, 
As 'neath its downy blanket peeps 
My baby's pink-white toes. 

1 love thee well, New England flower! 
In many a dell, full many an hour 
I've spent in search of thee; 

I love thee well, for those I love 

— Some of them dwell in Heaven above 

And some on earth with me — 

Have held thee dear; 

And every year thy smiling face 

Reminds me of a time and place 

More sacred than a pilgrim's shrine, 

More holy than the vesper hour, 

O sweet New England flower! 



[16] 



THE SACRED HILLS 

Three hills looking down on the river, 
That silently rolls to the sea 
Through the silvery mists that shiver 
In the valley below the three. 

Three hills, and they hold in their keeping, 
Making holy the soil and the sod, 
Our dead who beneath them are sleeping, 
Awaiting the call of their God. 

O sweet is the rest they are taking, 
The hills and the valleys among; 
And gone from our hearts is the aching 
That venomed the lip and the tongue. 

Forgotten, almost, is the story 

Of bitterness, bloodshed and strife; 

Forgotten the battlefield gory, 

Where our loved one bought peace with his life. 

The scars of the nation are hidden, 
The mounds on the hillsides scarce show, 
But memory lives, and, unbidden, 
The tears for our dead softly flow. 

Blow soft o'er their turf, winds of Heaven, 
Lie gently, O blossoms of May; 
Till the hills everlasting are riven, 
When cometh God's judgment day! 

[17] 



A DAY OF THE LONG AGO 

There's a day I know of the long ago 
When the sky was all one blue ; 
And the robin's song the whole day long 
Voiced the love in my heart for you : 

'Twas the self same day in the far away 
When the wind blew soft from the sea, 
And the blue bird's song the whole day long 
Told the love in your heart for me. 

'Twas an April day that was almost May, 
A day that was made for love ; 
And life was all good as we roamed the wood 
While the sun smiled down from above. 

We sought the place where the pure sweet face 
Of the modest star flower showed, 
In the sheltered nook where the singing brook 
Runs down by the old mill road. 

For the Mayflower's bloom with its faint per- 
fume 

We searched where the old oak stands ; 

And how could I miss when you paid with a 
kiss 

For the blossoms I placed in your hands? 



[18] 



Ah, how could I know that my love would grow 
Since that day in the bright spring weather, 
Truer, stronger, through the years that have 

known both smiles and tears 
O happy, happy years we've spent together! 



[19] 



THE MARCH OF THE MEN IN BLUE 

Down the broad street, with tattered banners 

flying, 
They march, those men in blue, 
As they have marched year after year, defying 
Old Time his worst to do. 

Feebler the steps, but hearts are true and 

steady, 
While hope lights every eye; 
To-day, as fifty years ago, they're ready 
To suffer or to die. 

But year by year the ranks are thinner growing, 
For Time will have his toll, 
And since a year ago new names are showing 
On Fame's immortal roll. 

On life's wide field Death's scouts are busy ever, 
And one by one they go — 
Brave men in blue who battled oft, but never 
With such relentless foe! 

In that great camp beyond the last wide river, 

The army of the dead 

Sleeps undisturbed, while shadowy pontoons 

quiver 
Beneath their comrades' tread. 



[20] 



When they have all passed on and memories only 

Within our hearts remain, 

Tears from our eyes shall fall, sad, and as 

lonely 
As the autumnal rain. 

So long they have been with us! Forms and 

faces 
Part of our lives have grown ; 
God keep them still in the familiar places 
Which they so long have known! 

Up to the hills they march with banners flying, 
Grand Army men in blue; 

Up where their comrades rest who counted dying 
The least that they could do. 

Our hearts go with them and we render gladly 

The tribute of our love, 

Tears mingling with the bloom of May as, 

sadly, 
We bend their graves above. 



[21] 



O NIGHT THE DARKEST EARTH HAS 
SEEN 

Night on the slopes of Calvary's hill, 
Night like a funeral pall, 
Where lie the blood-stained crosses still, 
Beyond the city's wall. 

Night where the Roman soldiers pace 
Beside the sealed rock, 
Where lies the hope of all the race, 
Dead Shepherd of the flock ! 

Night in Gethsemane's garden where 
So oft the sheltering trees 
Caught the low whisper of His prayer 
And shared His agonies. 

Night broods o'er Pilate's restless sleep, 
Night fills his soul with dread; 
Remorse within his heart gnaws deep, — 
His dreams are of the Dead ! 

Night where Iscariot's body lies 
Dishonored and abhorred; 
Shed bitter tears, ye Syrian skies 
For him who sold his Lord ! 



[22] 



Night where the mother Mary mourns 
Her well beloved son, — 
" O cruel cross ! O crown of thorns ! 
What evil had he done ! " 

Night in the home at Bethany, 

Where oft He loved to go ; 

Night in the hearts of the well loved three 

As they watch and whisper low. 

O night the darkest earth has seen 
Since chaos reigned afar! 
The hate that slew the Nazarene 
Quenched Heaven's brightest Star! 



[23] 



A TRIBUTE 

(g. h. r.) 

In a safe harbor where the Southern Sea 
Earth's circling arms caressed unceasingly, 
I lay at anchor when there drifted in 
A battered ship, with sails and cordage gone, 
Masts cut away, and decks of all stripped clean 
A storm-tossed hulk but laden, one did say, 
With cargo that would ransom all the kings 
Of earth. 

So was it with our friend. Life's storms 
Did buffet him and here and yon did drive; 
Adversity beset him oft and beat him back; 
The waves of trouble o'er him broke and when 
In all his sky no star of hope appeared, 
Infirmity's full tide upon him rolled 
And almost overwhelmed. Yet, through it all, 
No cry save that of prayer escaped his lips, 
No murmur of complaint was ever heard, 
But oft a cheery hail to those cast down 
Or hidden in the mist of doubt and woe, 
While ever was his hand outstretched to those 
Whose needs were more than his. 



[24] 



We may not grieve, 
We who are left behind, for well we know 
That he whom favoring wind did seldom kiss 
Hath long ere this felt heavenly zephyrs blow, 
Wafting him onward to that far-off shore 
Where wait his loved ones long since gone 
before. 



[25] 



RECOMPENSE 

Beneath a leaden sky in cold November 

I planted roses all one afternoon — 

Rough, thorny things; 

While to my bleeding hands I cried "Remember, 

Winter and Spring shall pass and then fair June 

With all her wealth of blossomings, shall hide 

These cruel stings." 



[26] 



THE WEARY TEACHER 

Her day is ended. All the girls and boys 
Have gone away and now the hideous noise 
Which marked their flight gives place to peace- 
ful calm; 
And how the quiet of the moment steals like 

balm, 
Into her weary heart! How long the hours 
Have been the while the scent of earth and 

flowers 
Called from without! Faint on the summer 

breeze 
Come Nature's myriad sounds, — the hum of 

bees, — 
The birds' sweet song within the nearby trees, 
The ploughman calling to his weary team — 
The drowsy murmur of the winding stream 
Where lazy cattle stand knee deep and seem 
Asleep. How grateful to the tired ears, 
These summer sounds the weary teacher hears ! 

The sun's low rays creep through the open door 
Making a shining pathway on the floor, 
And still she sits, with head upon her hand — 
In weariness that few can understand — 
The weary teacher when her day is done ! 



[27] 



THE FLOWER TRANSPLANTED 

The Gardener's gift, the flower, which through 

the long 
Bright summer days made glad the passing 

hours, 
And gave its fragrance, as the birds their 

song — 
Or as the April sky its freshening showers — 
Drooped as the summer waned. The Gardener's 

hand 
Lifts tenderly the fading plant and sweet and 

low 
Soundeth His voice — " To some fair Heavenly 

Land 
I will transplant thy flower and thou shalt know 
Some day, that I was kind and good to thee, 
When clothed in radiant beauty, thou shalt see 
Its fadeless bloom throughout eternity ! " 



[28] 



WHY THE BIRDS SING 

Because the sky is all one blue, 

Because the soft, sweet summer winds are blow- 
ing; 

Because the grass is wet with dew, 

And fragrant wild flowers in the woods are 
showing ; 

Because they hear the hum of bees, 
Among the blossoms of the orchard yonder, 
And catch the drowsy melodies 
Of brooks which through the grassy meadows 
wander ; 

Because they hear the cattle call 
As slowly down the valley they are heading 
To where the deep, cool shadows fall 
And giant oaks their sheltering arms are 
spreading. 

One day in seven doth man sing 

And offer thanks and praise for God's bestow- 
ing, 

But these small creatures of the wing 

Through every hour their gratitude are show- 
ing. 

O heart of mine! Pour out a song, 

Nor hold thy peace while blessings fall in 
showers ; 

The world is thine ! To thee belong 

Sky, wind, bees, brooks, wild woods and fra- 
grant flowers. 

[29] 



THE CALLING WATER 

The Water calls! — There, on the Eastern 

Shore, — 
The breakers' sullen roar, — 
The rise and fall of tide, — 
The stretch of heaving blue, horizon-wide, — 
Ah, as the bridegroom calleth for his bride, 
So calls the restless sea, — 
Calls with insistent, ceaseless voice, Come ! Come 

to me! 

The Water calls! Down where the hurrying 

brook 
Makes pause, a quiet nook — 
How well I know the place ! 

Often the clear, cool depths have held my face 
As in a mirror. Now, — O God of grace ! — 
Something within me calls 
To that deep pool whereon the sunlight never 

falls ! 

The Water calls ! The river hastening down, 

Cleaving the quiet town, 

Slips past the rocks that try 

Its course to stay, but still it hurries by 

And I can hear it calling, — hear that cry, 

The same that came to me 

From that dark pool and from the restless, 



surging sea! 



[30] 



The Water called her! Sea and brook and river 
(Ah, man must needs forgive her ! ) 
Promised the end of pain 

For weary heart, for fevered, tortured brain: 
And now let tears of love and pity rain 
Upon the upturned face 

From which the calling river washed care's 
every trace ! 



[31] 



ABSENCE 

She is gone and the house is so still and so 

lonely ! 
'Tis the ghost of a home, and my heart whispers 

low, 
" Ah ! now you well know it is she and she only, 
Who gladdens your life as the days come and 

go." 

Her chair by the window, a bit of her sewing, 
Her thimble left just where she laid it that 

day,— 
Her basket, — a bit of unfinished work showing, 
Her clothes in the closet in sweet disarray, — 

All, all as she left them, but she, their bright 

spirit, 
Has gone, and 'tis like looking down on the clay, 
When a cold, lifeless form is the gift we inherit 
From Death when some loved one is taken away. 

Oh the best of my life went away with her 

going, — 
The brightness, the sweetness, the joy and the 

zest! 
In my grief-clouded heavens no sunshine is 

showing, 
My heart lieth heavy and cold in my breast! 



[32] 



Should there be — O my God — should there 

be no returning ! — 
Should the days and the months and the years 

still to come, 
Hold never an answer to love's tender yearning, 
Should I live on alone in my desolate home! 

There's a step on the stair and the odor of roses 
Steals into the room as I wait by the door ; 
And then — she is back ! and my arm 'round her 

closes, 
As softly she whispers, " I will leave you no 

more ! " 



[33 



MOTHER'S BAKING DAY 

I was dozing in my armchair with a book upon 
my knees, 

While through the open window came sweet 
summer's melodies, — 

The sound of many song birds and the hum- 
ming of the bees ; 

And the breath of June's red roses drifted with 
the summer wind — 

(Now I love the scent of roses and the wander- 
ing breeze was kind, 

And he bore his lovely burden till he found my 
half -closed blind). 

In the culinary region underneath, I thought I 

heard, 
Now and then, its clever goddess as about her 

work she stirred; 
And I caught the sound of singing though I 

understood no word. 

Now I wonder if you've noticed as you've gone 

along life's way, 
How some odor will bring suddenly to mind a 

certain day, 
Or a scene, a pain or pleasure, which till then 

forgotten lay. 



[34] 



As I dozed within my armchair came my friend 

the summer breeze — 
Came and stirred the leaves of that old book 

that lay upon my knees; 
Then he whispered to me, gently, " Here's a 

something that will please." 

'Twas the smell of ginger cookies from the re- 
gion down below! 

And my thought went back to childhood as an 
arrow from a bow, 

And I stood in mother's kitchen in the years of 
long ago. 

With her sleeves above her elbows and her hair 
all tidied back, 

(She used to say a frowsy-headed girl was al- 
ways slack), 

She would spend the half of Saturday in baking 
up a stack 

Of cookies, bread and doughnuts, pies and pud- 
dings, Johnny-cake — 

Oh I cannot call to mind the half the things she 
used to make, 

But I know I always liked to stay around and 
watch her bake. 



[35] 



And I'm sure I must have bothered her, for oft 

I've heard her wish 
" I wouldn't get right under foot," then with a 

sudden " sh !" 

She drove me out (but afterward she let me lick 

the dish) ! 

'Twas fun to watch her mix the dough and use 

the rolling pin; 
And when she had it all rolled out (I always 

thought too thin), 
To see her cut out cookies with a heart-shaped 

cooky tin. 

And how I teased to have " what's left," to make 

a cooky man! 
And what a time I had to get him safely in the 

pan! 
And when I had him baked he looked just like a 

palm leaf fan. 

As still I dreamed of baking days in which I'd 

taken part, 
I was suddenly awakened from my dreaming 

with a start, 
And there stood the kitchen goddess with a 

fresh baked cooky heart! 



[36] 



Now I wonder if you've noticed as you passed 
along life's ways 

How the smell of something baking, on the mo- 
ment, seemed to raise 

A long-forgotten memory of your mother's 
baking days? 



[37] 



A SUMMER NOON 

The dusty highway and the city street 
Alike are blistering in the noontide heat. 
Quiet is over all. The dying grass 
Uplifts no finger to the sky of brass ; 
Even the leaves of yonder poplar trees, 
Responsive ever to the slightest breeze, 
Hang motionless. The shrinking shadows crawl 
Beneath the trees. Beside the garden wall, 
Backed to its cooling bulk, the house dog lies 
With dripping tongue. His enemies, the flies, 
Give him no rest and presently he goes 
To the dark cellar to escape his foes. 
A robin on the fence post lifts his wings 
To cool his burning body; then he sings, 
But seemingly his dry and parched throat 
Unequal is to its accustomed note. 
Listless and drooping stand the ranks of corn, 
Longing to feel again the dews of morn. 
Down where the brook has widened to a pool, 
And paused beneath the old oak's shadow cool, 
The cattle stand knee deep and chew their cud, 
Their hot hoofs buried in the cooling mud. 
Up from the meadows basking in the heat 
The smell of new mown hay, like incense sweet, 
Drifts slowly o'er the heads of nodding wheat. 
For one brief hour the reapers' blades are still — 
For one brief hour no sound from yonder mill 
Betrays the whirling stones. The pounding feet 

[38] 



Of weary horses, as they slowly eat, 
Scarcely disturb the reapers as they rest 
Within the half-filled mow. Up on her nest 
A swallow twitters softly to her brood 
And for a time forbears her quest for food. 
Rest rules the welcome hour; but all too soon 
That hour has ended and 'tis afternoon! 



[89] 



THE WOOD ROAD 

Sweet with the smell of pine and fragrant fern, 
Bordered with laurel and the late wild rose, 
Charm adding unto charm with each new turn, 
In sinuous beauty through the wood it goes. 

How fair each step of all that winding way 
Carpeted deep with needles of the pine, 
Which 'neath a lace of flickering shadows lay 
Where sunlight softly fell through tree and 
vine. 

The wind that sighed among the whispering 

trees — 
The faint, far call of some lone wandering 

bird — 
The rustling of a squirrel — the hum of bees — 
Our own soft footfalls — only these we heard. 

Like a dim aisle in old cathedral vast 
The arborous arches shut us from the sky, 
Beauty to beauty added as we passed 
The living pillars lifted up on high. 

Like a cool hand in benediction laid, 
Or the low tones of long forgotten prayers, 
Fell on our hearts, within that grateful shade, 
Forgetfulness of earth and all its cares. 



[40] 



And O the sacred peace that lingered there 
Within the wide, deep places of the wood ! 
The stillness of the ages seemed to share 
With us that holy, tranquil solitude. 



[41] 



THERE IS MY HOME 

There is my home where giant elm trees meet 
In graceful arches o'er the wide old street ; 
Where locusts lift to Heaven their fern-like 

leaves 
And the wistarias clamber to the eaves. 

There, where the woodbine paints in living green 
The shingled slopes, and weaves a grateful 

screen 
Beside my deep cool porch from which I see 
Twin birches, ever dear to memory. 

There, where my actinidia's tendrils reach 
The roof; where modest lillies gently teach 
Their lesson; where the fragrant roses bloom 
And honeysuckles scent the evening gloom — 

There is my home ; and to my grateful eyes 

It seems the opening gate of Paradise 

When o'er the lawn the lengthening shadows 

creep, 
And nightfall sends me home to rest and sleep. 

Fair is my home, but there's one fairer still 
Where ends the slope of life's last, longest hill ; 
And so along my way, steadfast, I fare, 
Faith whispering to my heart, " Thy Home is 
There!" 

[42] 



BURIED TREASURE 

With pick and spade deep down the delvers go 
Beneath the ruins buried ages since. 
Where Vulcan cast his scoria far and wide, 
A city's parks and streets are drifted full 
Of ash and molten rock. The centuries 
Have flung with careless hand the sifting sand 
In temple court and market place. And now 
Mole-like, the antiquary, bit by bit, 
Delves deep and labors long to clear away 
The wreck which time has made. How happy he 
If, after days of toil, by chance he finds 
A bit of pottery or an ancient coin 
On whose worn face he may discern, perhaps, 
The imprint of some king whose dust long since 
Has blended with the sand from which the coin 
Was dug. 

Seekers of treasure in the dust 
Of bygone centuries ! Here at our hand 
And in our midst ye may, even now, to-day, 
Find buried underneath the wrecks of sin 
And want and woe, vessels the Potter made 
Who formed the plastic earth ; may find the face 
Of Heaven's King show faint on human coin 
Lost, years ago, by careless hands or cast 
In anger off by those who should have saved. 



[43] 



FATHER'S HOLIDAY 

We're always glad when Father has a holiday, 

for then 
He stays at home and tinkers (Ma says, " like 

the best of men") ; 
And when night comes and we look 'round to 

see what he has done, 
We wonder when he says his holiday was lots of 

fun! 

That rocker in the parlor which would squeak 

like all possessed, 
He fixed that up so now we think it's just the 

very best 
Of all the chairs. But sister don't. She always 

has to blow 
'Bout something. Guess the reason is 'twont 

hold her and her beau. 

The tall clock in the hallway hadn't struck for 

awful long, 
And not a single one of us could tell just what 

was wrong; 
But that's the kind of tinkering that Father 

seems to like, — 
In twenty minutes by the clock we heard the old 

thing strike! 



[44] 



You ought to see him soldering! The tinman 

isn't in it! 
He'll take a leaky milk pan and in just about a 

minute 
It's just as good as ever, so Ma says; (She's 

awful proud 
Of Father, but she never tells him so right out 

'loud). 

The doors with broken hinges and the lock with 

key that's lost, 
The back steps heaved 'way out of place (I 

s'pose that was the frost) ; 
The coffee pot with lid broke off, the dish pan 

with a leak, 
The dinner bell with clapper gone, the screen 

door spring too weak — 

All these odd jobs and O, lots more, did Father 

do to-day, 
And just a little while ago he said 'twas just like 

play! 
I'll bet when I'm grown up like him I won't stay 

home and work 
On holidays like Father does; I'll lay 'round 

like a Turk ! 



[45] 



THE VISION 

Child in whose upturned eyes 
Shineth a light like that of some lone star, 
What dost thou see which sight to us denies 
Of that bright world afar? 

Hast thou a vision bright 

Of golden streets where crystal waters flow, — 
Where radiant angels, bathed in Heavenly light, 
Pass ever to and fro? 

Tell us, thou star-eyed one 

If, in that throng around the great White 

Throne 
Are those we love, whose work on earth is 

done, — 
Child, canst thou see our own? 

Oh, that our eyes, like thine, 
Could pierce beyond the farthest realm of night ! 
Where neither sun nor moon need ever shine, 
For the Lamb giveth light ! 

Falls on thy listening ear 

Sweet harmony as many an angel hand 

Sweeps soft o'er golden harp? Say, canst thou 

hear 
The music of that Land? 



[46] 



Speak, child ! What dost thou see ? 

Our eyes are holden, — blind to Heavenly 

things ; 
Tell us what vision is revealed to thee, 
What song through Heaven rings ! 



[«] 



THE ORGAN MASTER 

Within the gilded pipes sweet notes unnum- 
bered 
In silence slept 

Until the organ master, with caressing hands — 
Gentle as love's commands — 
The keyboard swept, waking each sleeping tone, 
And forth they came; softly at first, alone, 
Then, bolder grown, 
A mighty throng, 
They filled the sacred place 
With wordless song, 
And all the vast dim space 
That lies between the arches overhead 
And the worn pave where sleep the holy dead 
Was sweet with music which the master mind 
Had dreamed. 

Almost it seemed as though the informing wind 
That softly breathed into the pipes must be 
The echo of some angel melody ; 
For into bruised hearts it stole 
And whispering " Peace ! " lo, they were whole ; 
Bowed forms were lifted when was heard 
That heavenly music. Souls were stirred 
To better, truer, nobler things 



[48] 



And from the deeps of tear-dimmed eyes 
The beams of heavenly hope arise 
As from the forest pool there springs 
The clear reflection of a star 
That hangs in evening skies. 

Dream on! and tell the world thy wondrous 

dream, 
O man of music ! and thy melodies 
Shall cheer the camps that stretch along life's 

stream, 
Where hearts grow weary for the home that lies 
Beyond the sunset gleam. 



[49] 



WORK ON 

Courage, ye lesser ones! There rides on high 
Only one sun, ruling the hours of day, 
But in the blackness of the midnight sky 
Shines many a star that points the homeward 

way 
For mariners upon the trackless sea. 
Who knows for whom his life a star may be? 

Work on, nor count thy work a trivial thing, — 
No earnest life was ever lived in vain ; 
The fragrance of a wild flower's blossoming 
May soothe a grieving heart or ease a pain. 
Omnipotence upholds each distant star, — 
Omniscient love knows where the flowers are. 



[50] 



THE WIFE 

I know a heart as pure and sweet 
As any drop of dew that glows 
Within the petals of a rose. 

I know a pair of dainty feet 

That never rest nor know content 

Unless on love's sweet errands bent. 

I know a pair of hands that seek 
Each moment's chance to minister 
To him who is the life of her. 

I know dear lips that ceaseless speak 
The words of comfort soft and low 
She sends adrift like thistle blow. 

I know of eyes that e'en the dark 
Would pierce to see if her love's face 
Bore of distress or pain a trace. 

I know of ears that ever hark 

Lest her beloved's faintest cry 

Of pain or need should pass them by. 

Kindness and mercy, truth and grace, 
These, like soft draperies she wears, 
As gently on life's way she fares, 

And ever the brightness of her face 
Makes radiant sunshine as she goes — 
God bless her life till life shall close ! 

[51] 



HER EYES ARE WINDOWS 

Her eyes are windows of a soul 
Fragrant with all that's good, 
As soft, sweet odors downward drift 
From the pine hearted wood. 

Her smile is like the light that falls 
On mountain, lake and plain, 
When, after some brief summer shower, 
The sun shines out again. 

Her lips are sweet with many a word 
Of comfort, spoken low; 
Her ears the chalices wherein 
Rests many a tale of woe. 

Her feet are mercy's messengers, 
Swiftly obedient 
To do the promptings of a heart 
Ever on goodness bent. 

Her willing hands no rest may know 
When love or duty calls ; 
She scatters kindness as, of old, 
The Heavenly manna falls. 

Ah, he who wins her heart of love 
Shall find himself more blessed 
Than he of old whose touch to gold 
Turned all that he possessed ! 

[52] 



MEMORY 

(An answer to William Watson's "The Fatal 
Prayer") 

Who looks but once on beauty's face 
Can ne'er forget that sight, 
Though blindness banish every trace 
Of Heaven's effulgent light. 

For there's a hidden chamber where 
Fond memory often goes, 
And Oh! that room is wondrous fair, 
And many a picture shows 

Upon those walls. Nay, poet, nay, 
Blind eyes no armor wear, 
For memory's halls are bright as day 
To those who wander there. 

Close thou thine eyes and thou shalt see 
(And seeing shalt be blest!) 
Thy mother's eyes that looked on thee 
Asleep, upon her breast. 

And though an ocean roll between 
Thy best-beloved and thee, 
Still plainly her dear face is seen, 
Revealed by memory. 



[53] 



TWO DAYS 

Short was the road and bright, though no least 

ray 
Found the wood path that wound among the 

trees ; 
For one dear presence made as light as day 
That darkening trail the sunlight never sees. 

O drear and never ending is the way 
Across the mountain meadow's sun-kissed height, 
Untrodden by the feet which, yesterday, 
Led through the gloom and made the darkness 
light. 



[54] 



THE OLD YELLOW HIGH CHAIR 

Down the line from father to son 

The old yellow high-chair came ; 

And now, because of the good it has done, 

And not because it is lame 

In its arms or legs, or is getting rheumatic, 

Up there in the attic, 

Under the eaves, 

Where the falling leaves 

And the pattering rain 

Tell over again 

The story of what's going on outside, 

The old high-chair is allowed to bide 

In peace and quiet ; 

While the rush and riot — 

The scramble of life, 

And the world's mad strife, 

Are all shut out by the friendly roof. 

There can certainly be no better proof 

Of its friendship than all those little chinks 

So carefully left in its shingled slopes, 

Through which the North star sometimes winks 

And asks if the old high-chair has hopes 

Of finding his way down stairs once more ! 

And then, far back along time's shore 

In thought the old chair wanders ; 

And dreamily he ponders 

On that glad day, so far away, 

[55] 



When he was young, and to him clung 
That wonderful first-born baby ! 
Gripping his arms (he can feel it yet!) 
And kicking his legs (will he ever forget?) 
Thumping a soft head, maybe, 
Against his back, and resting there, 
So smooth and round and void of hair, 
That wonderful first-born baby! 

Seventy years have passed since then: 

More babies came and grew to men ; 

But never a one was so sweet and fair 

As the one that christened the old high-chair. 

War! and the first born, held so dear, 
Grown to a man, was a volunteer 
When his country called. Ah, many a tear 
The mother shed; 
And the farewell said 
Was said forever. 
For, back to her never 
Returned her boy, her priceless joy, 
And he rests to-day in a far away 
And unmarked grave 'neath Southern skies; 
While the waiting mother's tear-dimmed eyes 
Were closed long since and now she sleeps 
Where the old pine tree forever keeps 
His watch on the middle ridge up yonder — 
Where the sighing night winds meet and pon- 
der 
Of Death and the harvest that he reaps. 

[56] 



Down the line from father to son — 
And seventy years is a long, long time ! 
The old chair thinks of them one by one: 
That first baby's father was in his prime 
When the last baby came and the proud chair's 

arms 
Received the girl with her winsome charms; 
But alas ! it was scarcely more than a year 
That she tarried here; 
Then she went away, 
And the light of day 
Died out of the sky: 
And the weeks went by 
On leaden feet, 
While all there was left 
For the mother bereft 
Was a memory sweet. 

Sad thoughts? Ah yes, but the years that lay 
Between that first and this last birthday, - — 
How filled they were with joy for the chair! 
For nine little babies soft and fair 
He held in his arms and sheltered there. 
And the sixth of the nine when he grew to a 

man 
And had married a wife and really began 
To live a real life, 

To him, down the line, came the old high-chair 
With coat of yellow and stripes of green ; 

[57] 



And the proudest chair that ever was seen 
When the sixth son's first born baby boy — 
His father's pride and his mother's joy — 
Was put in his arms to hold ! 

And now, for fifteen years or more, 

The old yellow chair graced the nursery floor, 

As proud of the new coat of paint he wore 

As he was of the heads of gold 

That bumped and thumped and rumpled and 

rolled 
Against his back, till he thought they must 

crack — 
Six little heads, all told. 

"Old friends are best," is a saying true 

Which appeals to me as it does to you ; 

And whether the friend be man or chair, 

Or the tree at the foot of the garden there, 

Or the grandfather's clock at the head of the 

stair, 
Give me the old friends though they be few — 
Let those who will, take the young and the new. 

The years went by as a dream is dreamed 
And the babies wore all the paint off the arms 
Of the yellow chair till the bare wood gleamed, 
But that only heightened the old friend's 

charms. 
The babies grew (as they always do) 

[58] 



And there came a day 

Alas for the chair! 

When they took him away — 

Up the attic stair — 

And they put him aside, like an outgrown shoe ; 

And there he stood for many a year, 

While sometimes hope and sometimes fear 

Came into his life 'neath the sloping eaves ; 

For the whispering leaves 

Would tell of the happenings down below, 

How the children continued to thrive and grow; 

How the eldest was almost to manhood grown 

When Death came by and claimed his own; 

And the old pine tree saw a new grave made 

Where the first born boy was tenderly laid 

And covered away from the snow and the cold 

When the year was new and the century old. 

But time works wonders and heals all scars ; 
The prisoner, waiting behind the bars, 
Fixes his thought on that far away, 
But steadily coming nearer, day 
Which again shall set him at liberty. 

So in silence waits the old high-chair 
For the sound of a step on the attic stair ; 
For he knows, as the years go, one by one, 
That down the line from father to son 
His way shall lead; and he hopes to see 
The sixth son's son coming up some day 

[59] 



To take him away; 

Then his arms shall hold, 

As in days of old, 

A wonderful first-born baby! 

And who of us knows — 

Save the wind that blows 

Over the tree tops and under the rose, — 

How soon that glad time may be? 

Wait patiently, old yellow chair 

For the mounting step on the attic stair; 

Tell over again, 

O pattering rain, 

And whisper, ye leaves, 

To the sloping eaves, 

The story of what goes on outside, 

That the old high chair 

May not despair, 

But in patience and hope may bide. 



[60] 



A DAY AT SEA 



Sunshine and whispering breeze, 
A cloud-flecked summer sky ; 
All day we watch the shimmering seas 
And so the hours drift by. 



61 



AFTER SIXTY YEARS 

A young man walking in a garden fair 

Well filled with flowers whose fragrance filled 

the air, 
Found only one that pleased him, just one rare 
Sweet Marigold. 

An old man standing in the sunset light 
Is clasping still his flower and still 'tis bright. 
"O Blossom sweet!" he cries, "God bless, to- 
night, 
My Marigold ! " 



{62] 



A PICTURE 

The night was chill and by my study fire 

I sat and nursed my lately kindled ire ; 

For just within the hour my little girl 

Had done some trifling wrong and, like a churl, 

In anger I had struck the child a blow 

And driven her from me. O may God do so 

To me and more also if I repeat 

The folly of that hour! With lagging feet 

She crept away, and through the open door 

I saw her climb the stair. Now heretofore 

Each night she came and sat upon my knee 

And eased her troubled heart, or else in glee 

She told of something that had caused her mirth. 

Ah me ! My fire seemed now but little worth ; — 

Its warmth and brightness vanished with her 

flight, 
And how I missed her kiss and low " Good 

night." 

A white robed figure steals into the room, 
Like some fair lily full of sweet perfume, 
And with her face pressed close against my 

breast, 
I am forgiven and she sinks to rest. 



[63] 



THE PRODIGAL SON'S AWAKENING 

Outcast and stranger still in this far land! 
The fires which flamed so hot within his heart 
Have burned to ashes now, and hand in hand 
With want, he wanders while with maddening 

smart 
His conscience pricks him deep. At night, alone, 
His eyes, uplifted, see in every star 
The eye of God. The night wind from afar 
Finds him as, with no pillow but a stone, 
He tries to sleep, and whispers in his ear. 
He dreams of home. Again he seems to hear 
His father's voice and see the kindly face, 
So filled with love, and for a little space , 
He is a boy again and back at home! 
Was it the wind that whispered that sweet word? 
Was it the father's prayer that God had heard? 
The sin-sick dreamer woke. Beneath the dome 
Of Heaven he was alone, but there had stirred 
Within his heart some impulse toward the good, 
And when at last the morning broke, he stood, 
A man once more ; and as a wounded bird 
Will seek its nest, so did the wanderer, — come 
Again to self, — turn back once more toward 

home. 



[64] 



THE AUGUST CROAKER 

O singer of the fading summer light ! 

Thy strident, never-ending monotone, 

Shot, thread-like, through the warp and woof of 

night, 
Makes through the hours a music all its own. 

Both requiem and prophecy thy lay; 

The summer dies and for her thou must sing; 

While Autumn's footsteps sound far down the 

way, 
And thou art herald to the season's King. 



[65] 



SUMMER PASSES 

So fair my garden is, so rich with bloom, 
Scarce for another blossom is there room. 
All Summer long, with love and tender care, 
I've watched the countless flowers growing there, 
And all the air 
Was laden with their delicate perfume. 

All Summer long! Sad words, for Summer 

wanes, 
And the warm days, blue skies and blossoming 

lanes, 
Give place to Autumn's haze, skies overcast, 
And yellowing leaves. 
All nature grieves 
That Summer's pleasant reign so soon is past. 

So fair my garden is ! And now, some night, 

With killing blight, 

The frost will lay a ruthless hand on all 

The blooms which hold my heart in loving 

thrall ; 
And in the morn of some gray, cold to-morrow, 
Will come to me that bitter grief and sorrow 
Which mothers know 

Who weep and mourn their well-beloved dead ; 
And I will go 
And mourn, nor will my heart be comforted. 



[66] 



THROUGH THE VALLEY 

If it were mine to choose how I would go 
When, at the last, Death's summons comes to me, 
I'd crave of him our meeting place might be 
In some fair, quiet valley, where the flow 
Of crystal water greets the listening ear ; 
Where sentinel peaks look on the scene below 
And guard, with jealous care, the vale held dear. 
I'd ask that it might be some autumn day, 
When Indian summer's glamour holds in thrall 
The warm, bright world; when the lone wood 

bird's call 
Comes faintly, like an echo gone astray. 

In such a place, on such a day, died he 

Whom I have known and loved for twoscore 

years ; 
And when, unbidden, to my eyes the tears 
Will come, I chide my heart and say "Let be! 
He would not have thee grieve; rather rejoice 
That he, who loved the mountains and the wood, 
The sunlight and the sea and all that good 
Which sprang to being at the primal Voice, 
Knew not Death's valley, 'twas so passing fair, 
Nor knew that Death himself was waiting there, 
Until, beyond the stream, One took his hand 
And bade him welcome to Immanuel's Land." 



[67] 



MY SHINGLE ROOF 

Battalion on battalion, 

Brigade upon brigade, 

Rank after rank, flank touching flank, 

They wait, all undismayed. 

Never was such an army 

In battle line arrayed ; 

Row after row they wait the foe, — 

But bear no shining blade. 

No banners o'er them flying, 

No thunderous cannonade, 

No roll of drums, no shrieking bombs, 

No bursting of grenade. 

But braver, truer soldiers 
Ne'er formed on esplanade, 
They scoff at fate, in silence wait 
Time's furious enfilade. 

Winds sweep down on them fiercely, 
But never a renegade 
Slips from his place or hides his face 
From the enemy's cavalcade. 



[68] 



By the heat all bent and twisted, 
All drenched in the rain's cascade, 
Torn by the gale, beaten by hail, 
Still they hold their barricade. 

And we, in our home underneath them, 
As we ponder the part they have played, 
Have our hearts a glow ? Do glad tears flow, 
As we think of them there, unafraid? 

Then here's to the battered old soldiers! 
All honor the stand they have made! 
Every foe held aloof on the slopes of my 

roof, — 
Hats off to the shingle brigade! 



[69] 



THE VANISHED SPIRIT 

I saw her here but yesterday, Spirit of Summer, 

bright and warm — 
whither has she fled away with all her graces 

multiform ? 
But yesterday I felt her breath, sweet with the 

scent of fern and pine — 
To-day, one whispers of her death and even the 

sun forbears to shine. 

She was too fair to die, too fair; she seemed of 
life a very part, 

Sweet Spirit, wandering everywhere but always 
shrined within my heart; 

Beyond the brook, beside the wood, where 
meadows blushed with blossomed clover — 

O all the earth was warm and good with Sum- 
mer's Spirit hovering over. 

The daisies and the golden rod, the jasmine and 

the meadow sweet — 
How well they knew the way she trod, how 

watched they for her coming feet ! 
They droop and pine with grief to-day, they 

shiver in the Autumn storm — 
O whither has she fled away, Spirit of Summer, 

bright and warm? 



[70] 



BUILD NOT THINE EARTHLY HOME 
SO FAIR 

Build not thine earthly home so fair, 

So filled with things which may thy soul delight, 

Lest thou forget that Mansion in the skies 

Which ever lies 

Beyond thy sight. 

Let not earth's music dull thy listening ear 
To those sweet tones which float forever down 
From that far Sphere, 
As though to drown 

The Noise of life which thou mayest hold too 
dear. 



[71] 



NIGHTFALL ON THE LAKE 

A drop of dew within the rose, 

One star lies in the West; 

And mirrored in the lake one shows, 

That in the zenith burns and glows — 

Diamond upon my lady's breast. 

The far off cries of whip-poor-will 

Faint wandering echoes wake, and hill 

Sends answer back to hill. The brake 

Stirs gently where the ripples kiss 

And die. Upon the pebbled shore 

A boat grounds softly. Now an oar 

Stirs the still waters far away 

In the deep shadows on the bay. 

The fragrant breath of night drifts down 

The wooded slopes. The soft wind stirs 

Among the lifted heads of firs 

And pines. The low-browed mountains frown 

Upon the Lake asleep below, 

But guard her with a jealous care, 

As knights of old their lady fair. 

Beside the road that creeps around 

The slumbering water, cattle stray ; 

Faint and still fainter comes the sound 

Of tinkling cow bells low and sweet 

Across the water of the bay — 

Meet Angelus for the closing day. 



[72] 



Dear Lake ! In memory oft, our feet 
Shall tread again that happy strand, 
Or, on her bosom, we, content, 
Shall live again the days we spent, 
Thrice happy days ! But if Fate cries 
" It shall not be ! " or Love denies 
To you and me the boon we crave, 
Faith whispers low, " A fairer wave 
Breaks yonder on that Heavenly shore! 
There all shall meet and sandaled feet 
Find rest beside the crystal tide 
That laves the golden street." 



[73] 



THE LIVING FLAG 

O wondrous fair was the sight we saw 
And it thrilled us through and through, 
For there, at the doors of the courts of law, 
Was the red, the white and the blue, 

A living flag ! our flesh and blood, 
It spread before our eyes ; 
Tear-dimmed before that sight we stood, 
'Neath the fair October skies. 

Henceforth those steps of carven stone 
That front the coming day, 
Are sacred as the cross whereon 
The Crucified once lay. 

Makers of law! when next you tread 
That way of the entering in, 
Go softly, with uncovered head, 
And purge your hearts of sin ; 

For twice a thousand mothers' tears 
Baptized the fabric fair, 

Of which was wrought, throughout the years, 
The living banner there — 



[74] 



And twice a thousand mothers' pain 
Has hallowed all the spot 
Whereon its priceless folds have lain — 
Defile, degrade it not! 

O wondrous fair was the sight we saw 
And it thrilled us through and through, 
To see at the doors of the courts of law, 
The living red, white and blue ! 



[75] 



THE ROOM BEYOND 

"Where's Mother?" cries my little child to- 
day 
And I, impatient at her noise, though fond, 
Bid her be quiet ; then, more softly, say, 

" Your mother rests, child, in the room beyond." 

" Where are our loved ones ? " is the cry which 
breaks 
From anguished hearts when Death has cut 

the bond 
Between us; and 'tis Faith quick answer 
makes, — 
" They rest and wait you in the Room Beyond." 



[76] 



THE WINDING OF THE CLOCKS 

There's a scene I oft recall when Sunday morn- 
ing comes around, 

And I lie abed and listen to the ticking of the 
clocks ; 

And, as I listen, thought goes back to child- 
hood with a bound, 

And one old door in memory's hall that ceaseless 
tick unlocks. 

I can see as though 'twere yesterday and I a 

child again, 
Among the countless pictures hung for those 

dear walls' adorning, 
One that stands out from the others, bright with 

joy and dark with pain, 
Of my father as he wound his countless clocks 

on Sunday morning. 

Much I wondered in my boyhood why so many 

clocks he had, 
For I never saw in other homes the half of those 

he owned; 
Nor a clock that could compare, or so it seemed 

to me, a lad, 
With the great tall one I loved, which seemed to 

me the sweetest toned. 



[77] 



He would take me with him often when he went 

around to wind them, 
And I never thought then how the scene would 

linger through the years; 
But all clocks remind me now of him, no matter 

where I find them, 
And their hands point back to childhood's time 

and all its hopes and fears. 

One dark, rainy Sunday morning, he and I, to- 
gether standing, 

Watched the heavy old brass pendulum swing 
slowly to and fro ; 

'Twas the tall grandfather's clock that stood 
upon the stairway landing, 

With the bell I always loved to hear so sweet it 
was and low. 

Always I had thought my father harsh and stern 

and void of feeling, 
For he seldom showed to any one the love his 

heart might know; 
But to me, this rainy Sunday, came a sudden 

brief revealing 
And it smote my tender boyish heart as one 

might strike a blow. 



[78] 



We had stood for some time silent, he with hands 

upon my shoulder, 
And the ticking of the old clock blended with the 

beating rain; 
Somehow, as we stood there watching, silence 

seemed to make me bolder, 
And I glanced up in his face but quickly 

dropped my eyes again. 

For my glance had caught the shining of big- 
tear drops, all unshed, 

And his mouth was tense with feeling and his 
face with grief was marred ; 

Quickly stooping down he drew me to his breast 
and stroked my head, 

Then flung both his arms around my little form 
and squeezed me hard. 

Not a word he spoke and never have I known 

just why was given 
That brief glimpse of love and feeling which I 

saw in him that day; 
Nearly forty years have vanished since he went 

his way to Heaven, 
But the memory of that morning shall forever 

with me stay; 



[79] 



For, when cometh Sunday morning, and I listen, 

as to singing, 
To the ceaseless tick, tick, ticking which fond 

memory's door unlocks, 
I can see, as though 'twere yesterday, that 

shadowy portal swinging, 
And again I'm with my father as he stands and 

winds his clocks ! 



[80] 



THE CHILDLESS WOMAN'S CRY 

No child ! O pitying Christ, why, through these 

years, 
Hast Thou that priceless gift to me denied, 
Though often I have plead with Thee and tears 
The greatness of my grief have testified? 

Nightly I've dreamed these longing arms have 

held 
A tiny form whose eyes were like my own; 
Then waked, to find the vision sweet dispelled, 
And I with mocking sorrow left alone ! 

O there are some, dear Lord, whose arms are 

filled, 
And still to them Thou sendest more and more, 
While I am childless! Deem me not self-willed, 
But give, O Thou whom sweet-faced Mary bore, 

Give me one only child ! Birth-pains were sweet 
And death itself a gift I'll gladly take 
May I but feel my baby's heart throbs beat 
Against my own ; feel clinging lips that slake 
Their need at generous breasts, dry all these 

years. 
O Thou who wast a child ! For His dear sake 
Grant me, at last, surcease of these sad tears. 



[81] 



AT THE YEAR'S END 

The house is still ! Those whom I love have gone 
To rest, and sleep has claimed them for her own. 
The house is still : and yet full many a sound 
Falls on the listening ear. Up from the ground 
The snow is caught and on the midnight gale 
Goes swirling through the air and lips grow pale 
When suddenly it dashes 'gainst the pane 
As though the shrieking wind would entrance 
gain. 

In cheerful contrast with the world outside 
I watch the glowing logs within the wide 
Old smoky fireplace, while the flame's soft lap 
Makes pleasant music. Now a quick, sharp snap 
Beneath the porch tells of the heaving frost. 
In a far corner where the light is lost 
Among the shadows, lurks a prowling mouse, 
Waiting his chance to search the sleeping house. 

The old clock's solemn tick marks steadily 
The march of time toward eternity, 
And I am minded that the hour is near 
Which ends the old and brings the glad new 

Year. 
I sit alone and with a thoughtful heart 
Recall the vanished days, setting apart 
Each in its turn and noting how the good 
Or evil marked the hours. Some of them stood 

[82] 



In sharpest contrast with the rest. Dark days 
There were, when Nature's face and heart all 

haze — 
Enwrapped, reflected well my own sad mood, 
And seemingly the world held nothing good. 
Then there were other days when, like a song, 
The hours seemed but to sing themselves along, 
And never was the sky so clear a blue ! 
Well do I know, to-night, that ever, through 
Dark days and bright, a Father's clasping hand 
Was leading me, as toward the promised land 
In days of old, it led His chosen ones. 
Ah ! well for us if we, acknowledged sons 
Of His, would take Him at His word. Then 

might 
There be for us no more recurring night 
And day of doubt and faith but that sweet trust 
Which children have in us. 

A bitter gust 
Brings from the east the sound of chiming bells 
And glancing upward at the clock, it tells 
Me, with both hands upraised as if in prayer, 
" The New Year is at hand ; the old is — there ! " 



[83] 



THE LIVING LINCOLN 

" She is not dead but sleepeth." Thus the Lord 
To those who mourned and wept, long years 

ago 
Beside the bier of one by death laid low. 
But even death was vanquished by His word 
And when He spake, bidding the maid arise, 
Her willing soul came back from Paradise 
And life and health looked from her opening 

eyes, 
Obedient to the living Voice they heard. 

Thou, Lincoln, art not dead ! We call thy name 
And lo ! Out of the past thou dost arise, 
And once again those sad and tender eyes 
Where shone the truth with pure and steady 

flame 
Look in our own. We see thy grief -scarred 

face 
Where years of war had left their lasting 

trace, — 
The rugged, homely face which oft became 
The butt of fools and, to their lasting shame, 
The jester's sport, the target of buffoons. 

We listen and across the stretch of years, — 
Soft as the lullaby the mother croons, — 
Cometh thy voice and into willing ears 



[84] 



Findeth sure entrance. Heart and soul are 

thrilled 
As by some sweet and well remembered strain, 
Dear to our youth and now heard once 

again, — 
Echoes of voices loved but long since stilled. 

Thou livest still! Not more the gracious sun 
Doth bless the earth which soon he shall have 

won 
From Winter's icy grasp than doth fond mem- 
ory 
Warm us and cheer to-day. O rare sad smile, 
Flashing like sunshine o'er the stern, set face ! 
O face where sorrow dwelt, but never trace 
Of anger, passion, hate, resentment, guile! 

We may not call thee dead ! It is not death 
To leave a moldering body whence the breath 
Has taken flight and find a holy shrine 
Set up in every loyal, loving heart 
Throughout our land ! Nay, that great life of 

thine, 
Till time shall end, is of our lives a part. 
We bless the day that marks thy humble birth, 
Counting our land the favored land of earth 
Because it nurtured thee. O Man of men, 
Ne'er shall we look upon thy like again ! 



[85] 



IF ONLY- 



When we stand looking down on some dear 

face, 
Death having done his work and gone away, 
Scarce can we find it in our hearts to say 
" 'Tis well ! " but we would have our dead 

retrace 
The steps that led from us away. With tears 
And choking voice we cry aloud and say 
" Dear heart, come back for just one little day !" 
And shudder as we think of wasted years. 
Ah, could we only look far down the way 
Which we shall travel with our well beloved, 
And could we only realize that day, 
Swift coming, when from us shall be removed 
Our heart's delight! Then often would we 

show 
The love we feel but all too often hide — 
And when Death comes and it is time to go, 
Almost would our poor hearts be satisfied. 



[86] 



DISCONTENT 

The rose that blooms within my garden yonder 

Sigheth of ttimes — 

" Might I but scale these frowning walls and 

wander 
To other climes ! " 

There is no heart in home's safe shelter hiding 
But sometimes cries : 

" O that I were some otherwhere abiding, — 
Beyond home ties ! " 

Cold are the winds that sweep from yonder 

mountain, 
O sheltered rose! 

From many a homeless heart a bitter fountain 
Of sorrow flows. 



[87] 



THE NEW BOOK 

At mid of yesternight one came to me 
As by my burned out fire I sat, and thus 
He spake : " Here is a book whose leaves are fair 
And clean and pure as is a virgin's heart; 
Take it, — thou hast no choice, — and thou 

must write 
On every page ; that task thou mayest not shun. 
Remember, too, no line that thou shalt write 
On these fair pages may erased be 
But must forever stand, and shall be read 
By all thy fellows and thy God. So write, 
Therefore, that shame's red dye stain not thy 

cheek, 
Nor the sharp tooth of gaunt remorse sink deep 
Into thy heart when thou shalt turn thine eyes, 
In backward glance, upon the pages where 
Thy pen hath left, indelibly, its mark." 



[88] 



O SWEET, MY VALENTINE 

Unsatisfied mine eyes had roamed afar 
Nor lingered long on sun or moon or star, 
But when, by chance, they met those eyes of 

thine, 
They roamed no more, O Sweet, my Valentine! 

Mine ears had searched the ether many a year 
Nor found one voice than others yet more dear, 
But when they heard that tender voice of thine, 
The long search ended, Sweet, my Valentine ! 

Some meed of bliss my lips had sought in vain 
And to their parched selves returned again, 
But when at last they found those lips of thine, 
They sought no farther, Sweet, my Valentine! 

Vainly my heart, with tender yearnings filled, 
Beat on in loneliness until there thrilled 
Against it that warm, loving heart of thine, 
O heart of hearts, O Sweet, my Valentine ! 



[89] 



LINES 
Written among the Ruins of St. Pierre. 
Beneath our feet unnumbered thousands lie 
Who drank but once of Pelee's poisoned breath, 
Then, sending heavenward one despairing cry, 
They sank in silence to their dreadful death. 

No chance was theirs to flee impending fate, 
For Pelee spake but once and all was o'er; 
And like a blast from Hell's wide opened gate, 
His fiery breath rolled downward to the shore. 

Veiled for a season was Heaven's smiling face, 
The sun withdrew in horror from the sight, 
The while the sea fled, quivering, from the place, 
And neighboring mountains trembled in their 
fright. 

O city resting so confidingly 

Beside the mountain, towering to the skies! 

O happy people of the Southern sea, 

Upon whose heart no thought of danger lies ! 

To-day thy city lies in ruined heaps, 
Thy dwellings are thy people's only tomb ; 
The sea sings softly and forever keeps 
Her faithful watch beside thy place of doom. 

Beneath our feet unnumbered thousands lie 
Who worked and loved and lived without a care, 
And only crumbling ruins meet the eye, 
Where once lay peaceful, trusting Saint Pierre. 
[90] 



IT IS THE SAME 

The wind that drives against my window pane 

The icy rain — 

That makes the shivering old trees rock and 

groan, 
And send wild moan 
Into the wintry sky — 
Tossing gaunt arms on high — 
Is this the wind that seems so kind 
When June her joy prolongs? 
That fans my cheek as though to speak 
Some message past all uttering? 
That like the faintest fluttering 
Of angel wings, its echo brings 
Of long forgotten summer songs, 
When long forgotten summers came? 
Is it the same? Is it the same? 

The Voice that bids His radiant angels go 

(O sad, sad hour!) 

And pluck from love's fair garden here below 

Its fairest flower, — 

Is it the same that bade that garden bloom? 

Can the same Voice be Blessing and its Doom? 

Answers the Voice of Him who overcame — 

" The Voice that gave Me life in Mary's womb, 

Gave Me both death and life in Joseph's tomb, — 

It is the same ! It is the same ! " 



[91] 



JESUS GARCIA'S RIDE 

Jesus Garcia, Hero, died 
As of old, that other One 
Who for man was crucified, — 
Son of man and God's dear Son. 

His own life he might have saved, 
Had he loved his fellows less ; 
Death in awful form he braved, 
Proving his unselfishness. 

Not with nations looking on, — 
Waiting victory or defeat; 
Not where flashing sabers shone — 
Not to drum's inspiring beat, — 

All alone he rides at Death, 
Gripping hard his iron rein; 
Never once he wavereth, 
This brave son of Mexic-Spain! 

Nacozari, stricken dumb, 
Saw him thundering down the track, 
Nearer, nearer, watched him come, 
Grim Destruction at his back ! 



[92] 



Never once he slackened rein, 
Urged his steed to do its best, 
Swept past like a hurricane — 
Nacozari knows the rest. 

Jesus Garcia, Hero, died! 
But his name shall never die; 
Nor the story of his ride 
Fade from grateful memory ! 



J93[ 



TO MY OLD ARM CHAIR 

In the business of life we've been partners, old 

friend, 
For many a year, for many a year ; 
And partners we'll be till the business shall end, 
With many a tear, I there, and you here. 

How often I've found in your sheltering arms, 
When at rest there I lay, at the close of the day, 
A solace and comfort surpassing the charms 
That would lure me away, that would tempt me 
to stray. 

And sometimes, when sorely beset in the fight, 
When foes have been strong and the hours have 

been long, 
Then, your back to mine, we have fought 

through the night, 
And we vanquished the wrong, met the day with 

a song! 

Stay with me, old friend, to the close of life's 
day, 

And when the lights fade and the shadows in- 
vade, 

Let me rest in your arms where so often I lay, 

And pass, unafraid, to the Valley's dim shade. 



[94] 



THE ENGINEER 

With his hand upon the throttle, 
With his eyes upon the track, 
Thinking only of the safety 
Of the sleepers at his back; 
With the lives of half a thousand 
In the hollow of his hand, 
Hero of the age of iron — 
At " attention " see him stand. 
The Engineer ! 

You have seen him, or can see him, 

Any day or any night, 

And your eyes have never rested 

On a more worth-seeing sight; 

Sticking grimly to his saddle, 

Urging on his steed of steel ; 

Though he knows that Death is waiting 

For the turning of a wheel, — 

He knows no fear! 

Fear? He never knew the meaning 
Of a word so mean and base, 
But his courage knows no measure, 
See it shining in his face ! 
Seemingly in love with duty, 
As a bridegroom with his bride, 
Hundreds, yea, a thousand, trust him 
And their trust has deified 
The Engineer! 

[95] 



Sing not of the brilliant charges 
Of your far-flung battle line ! 
This man hourly charges danger 
With a bravery divine. 
Not a voice to cheer him onward, 
Not an eye to see but God's ; 
Not the sound of drum or bugle, 
Just the clanking of his rods 
Comes to his ear! 

Boring into unknown blackness 
With Cyclopean eye of light; 
Reeling off the miles which endless 
Stretch before him into night; 
Watching ever for the signal 
Which may tell of waiting death ; 
With a hand that feels the pulse beats, 
Ears that note each panting breath, — 
The Engineer! 

So through life he rides at danger, 
But at last will come a day 
When ahead will flash the signal 
" Stop ! Death has the right of way." 
Pray Thee, Lord, that of Thy mercy, 
There may be reserved for him, 
Place on high among the angels, — 
Seat among the Seraphim, 
Brave Engineer! 

[96] 



LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP 

Love, like the summer flower that in my garden 
blows, 

May bloom and quickly die; 

While friendship, like the vine which o'er my lat- 
tice grows, 

Shall winter storms defy. 



[97] 



GROWING OLD 

My cat grows old. The sign? Is this, - 
For years when bedtime, mine and his, 
Would come around he seemed to know 
Somehow, the time of night, and so 
Would hide away in some dark place, 
Which plainly meant, when all was said, 
" I'm not quite ready for my bed." 

But lately, long before the hour 
Has sounded from the old church tower, 
He sits beside the cellar's steep 
And narrow stair that leads to sleep, 
Begging me with his upturned eyes 
And with his vibrant tail that tries 
So hard to make me understand, — 
Begging that I put out my hand 
And do the thing he cannot do, — 
Unbar the door and let him through. 

So we, sometimes, as years increase, 
Sigh for the hour that brings release; 
And often when the way grows steep 
Or rough, we tire and long for sleep, 
And for the Master's lifted hand, 
That shall admit us to that land 
Where he doth shepherd all his sheep, — 
And give to his beloved, sleep. 



[98] 



THE OLD BRICK HOUSE ACROSS THE 
WAY 

'Tis Christmas night. A flood of moonlight falls 
Upon the old square house across the way, 
The old brick house, whose solid, well-built walls 
Have, for a hundred years, defied decay. 
Another hundred might have tried in vain 
To batter down those walls or entrance gain 
Through the stout door that shut the wind and 

rain 
Of summer, and the winter's driving snow 
From those within, but built for use, not show, 
The modern houses standing near cried, " Slow ! 
Old-fashioned ! Tear the old house down ! " and 

so 
The landmark of a century must go ! 
The roof is off, and all the windows gone ; 
The rafters fling black shadows to the floor 
That lies so strangely bare and ghastly white 
Through the long hours of the December night. 
No sound, no movement, save one chamber door 
That creaks upon its rusty hinge, and throws 
Slow moving shadows when the night wind blows. 
The hour is late, but from my window's height, 
Looking upon the beauty of the night, 
I see, through swift-transforming mists of tears, 
That ghastly, moon-lit skeleton of Home ; 
I see the ghosts that throng the hundred years, 



[99] 



Dead, bygone years. Out of the past they come, 
As forms loom suddenly in fog or night, 
And then as quickly vanish from the sight. 

I see the ghost of that first year when two 
Came hand in hand, and standing at the door, 
Thanked God for home. How fair it was ! How 

new! 
How radiant the bride as she passed through 
The welcoming home door, and was lost to view ! 
Vanish the year! Another takes its place, 
And through the mist I see another face, 
A dainty, fairy face. How soon 'tis gone — 
How fast the phantom years come crowding on, 
And how they fill with faces new and forms 
That shift and drift like clouds in summer 

storms. 
Out of the Past they come, but whither go? 
And why are some so radiantly bright, 
While others seem to merge into the night 
And be its counterpart? Burdened with woe 
Are these, and my unwilling eyes see Death 
With sorrow's garments trailing on the wind. 
Then more bright years, but as I look upon 
Their fading brightness they are quickly gone — 
So fleet is Time when to his children kind. 
The wintry wind sweeps through the wide old 

street, 
Making the aged elm trees moan and rock. 

[100] 



Far off I hear the old cathedral clock 
Strike twelve, and as the last note softly dies, 
The moon goes out, and now the old house lies 
Deep in the shadow of a passing cloud. 

As darkness makes the phosphored dial show 
More clearly to the weary watcher's eyes, 
So now an old-time picture stands revealed 
Against the blackness of the clouded skies, 
And ghostly, vanished years their secrets yield. 
I see the house as on old Christmas nights 
It stood adorned with flowers, ablaze with lights ; 
Cheerful with fires that cast their ruddy glow 
Out where the old post road lay deep with snow. 
Dim spectral forms fill every room. The fair, 
The brave, the young, the old are gathered there, 
And see ! The ghosts of that first happy pair 
Receive their ghostly guests with welcoming 

smile, 
Standing before the fireplace where, the while, 
The fire burns on and on but grows no less ! 
A happy pair, but O, how older grown ! 
A loving pair ; I note the soft caress 
She gives the white-haired groom ; nor I alone, — 
Children and children's children gathered there 
Make sly and jocund comment and the fair 
Old bride protests her right. A happy pair! 
They are not old to-night; love keeps them 

young, 

[101] 



And as I watch them move about among 

The merry guests that crowd each spacious room 

I wonder which is happier, bride or groom. 

O ghost of happiness, seen through falling tears ! 
O ghost of love that blessed the hundred years ! 
O fireside ghosts of happy Christmas days ! 
This is the end ! To-morrow earth's highways 
Shall be your trysting place, for the old home 
Shall vanish utterly and nevermore 
May you on Christmas nights together come, 
And, as to-night, with one another meet 
There, in the old brick house across the street. 



[102] 



THE TREE OF THE CROSS 

A Legend 

Once when I wandered in a silent wood 
With eyes uplifted to the mighty trees 
That people those dim realms of solitude — 
Grim guardians of Nature's mysteries — 

My thought turned backward to an olden time 
And older country by the sacred sea, — 
Dwelling on that which was the age's crime, 
The age's blessing to humanity ; 

And from much thinking of the cross where 

He 
Laid down his life I came to think at last 
Of one thing only, the accursed tree 
From which the cross was fashioned, and its 

past. 

Did it, like these around me, spring from 

earth ? 
Did it, like these, through ripening centuries 

grow? 
Or did it have, Minerva-like, its birth 
Full grown, inheritor of awful woe? 
Was it well favored? Had it aught of grace, 



[103] 



Or was the curse of Heaven its only boon? 
Clustered the fragrant wild flowers at its base ? 
These questions asked my heart from morn till 
noon, 

And when the lengthening shadows eastward 

crept, 
Wearied, I threw myself beneath a tree 
To rest, and as I rested must have slept, 
And as I slept this legend came to me, — 

Upon that night when Mary's Child was born 
Beneath the Star which hung o'er Bethlehem, 
A little tree stood shivering in the wind, 
Within a wood outside Jersualem. 

The mother tree was O so fair and tall, 
And stately as a ship upon the sea ; 
Her little one, so helpless and so small, 
The tiniest tree in all the wood was he. 

Down through the latticed leaves a strange 

new light 
Made flickering shadows underneath the trees, 
And on the stillness of the winter night 
There fell the strains of Angel melodies. 

" O Mother, what sweet music do we hear ? 
Why do the angels sing in yonder sky ? " 
And though the mother's heart was sick with 

fear 
She said, " They sing my baby's lullaby." 

[104] 



" O Mother, why has God hung in the sky 
That bright new star that makes the shadows 
here?" 

" Thou shalt know all when thou art tall as I, 
Now sleep, my child, thy mother watches 



" But Mother ! see how dark my shadow shows 
Upon the ground, and how my arms have 

grown ! 
Now you are trembling though the night wind 

blows 
So gently: Why? " " O hush and sleep, my 
own!" 

O prescient mother love ! O wordless fears ! 
O cankering grief that may be shared with 

none! 
O vista through the three and thirty years! 
O death in life and life but just begun! 

Upon that night when Judas sold his lord, 
Above Jerusalem, the listening moon 
Heard from a wooded slope, a wailing chord 
That through the clustering tree tops seemed 
to swoon; 



[105] 



And then, upon the rising wind was borne 
The sickening sound of woodman's cleaving 

blade ; 
And ere the crowing cock proclaimed the 

morn, 
Three rough-hewn crosses had the craftsman 

made. 

Three rough-hewn crosses and the mother tree 
Looks on and knows what fruit the three shall 

bear! 
Knows what the morrow's midday sun shall 

see 
On Calvary while Mary watches there ! 

O had I human speech ! Then should her ears 
Drink in what comfort it were mine to spare ; 
Then should she know my heart, through all 

these years, 
Held of her grief and mine an equal share ! " 

Upon that night when Joseph's tomb was 

sealed, 
Two mothers grieved within a moon-lit wood, 
And each to each the mother heart revealed, 
Though neither knew the other understood. 

For all unwittingly had Mary come 
And thrown herself beneath the mother tree, — - 
Spent with her sacrificial grief, and dumb 
With impotent and tearless agony. 

[106] 



She sleeps, but in her troubled dreams, again 
She stands before the cross on Calvary; 
She hears her first born's cry of mortal pain, 
And fears, then hopes, that death may pass 
Him by. 

She sees the hands which had so oft caressed 
Her own, with cruel, blood-stained spikes 

thrust through; 
Then, in her dream, she drew upon her breast 

The head which never softer pillow knew. 

She sleeps, and stirring, as the night grows 

chill, 
The old tree softly covers her with leaves, 
While o'er the upturned face, so white and 

still, 
The kindly moon a veil of shadows weaves. 

At dawn she wakes, and, as her opening eyes 
Note the kind deed which marked the chill 

night hours, 
Clasps with her arms the rough old trunk and 

cries 
" O, next to me He loved the trees and flowers ! " 

" And yet upon a tree they nailed my Son, 
And I had thought to curse all such as thee, 
But now, because of this that thou hast done, 
The cross forevermore shall sacred be." 

[107] 



The night had fallen when at length I woke, 
And through the trees I saw the moonlight 

gleam ; 
In soft low whispers kindly nature spoke, 
Making more real the substance of my dream ; 

And hastening homeward, quickly I trans- 
ferred 
To paper all the legend I had dreamed, 
So real to me was every spoken word, 
So sweet and tender every picture seemed. 



[108] 



NOTES 



NOTES 

The Lambs and The Shepherd — Written on 
the occasion of a church communion service when 
twenty young people united with the church and 
one aged woman, unable to be present, had the 
elements administered to her at her home. 

Memory — William Watson's "Fatal Prayer" 
is given below. 

" I vanquish," said the youthful King, 
" My foes on every field ; 

Yet, ye strong Gods, to one vain thing 

How helplessly I yield: 

" Behold me fall'n a slave each hour 
To some dark long-lashed eye ! 
Oh, grant me, Kings of Heaven, the power 
That sorcery to defy." 

They heard ; and from their ruthless height 
The dreadful gift was thrown — 
The armour against Beauty's might 
Worn by the blind alone. 

The Living Flag — During the Hudson-Ful- 
ton Celebration, 1909, 2,500 school children were 
massed on the steps of the state capitol at Al- 
bany, N. Y. so as to form an enormous living 
flag. 

[Ill] 



Jesus Gparcia's Ride — On Nov. 8, 1907, Jesus 
Garcia, engineer on a mining railroad in North- 
ern Mexico, pulled a blazing train of blasting 
powder and dynamite past the little town of 
Nacozari and sticking to his engine till he had 
reached the open country, perished when the ex- 
plosion came which utterly annihilated the en- 
tire train. 



[112] 



i «u iyiu 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



OCT 20 1910 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

020 994 540 A 





